The grand hall of the royal palace was an opulent display of excess. Tall, arched windows bathed the room in golden light, while rich tapestries depicting long-forgotten battles adorned the walls. A banquet table, piled high with an assortment of delicacies, sat untouched at the far end of the room. Despite the splendor, there was an air of restlessness within the chamber.
King Erend Lorridian slouched on his gilded throne, a hand idly toying with the hilt of his ceremonial sword. His expression was one of disinterest, his eyes occasionally darting toward the banquet table. The scent of roasted pheasant and spiced wine lingered in the air, taunting him.
“How much longer must I endure this drivel?” he muttered under his breath, leaning toward his steward. “Surely there are more pressing matters than tariffs and grain shipments.”
The steward opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the doors to the hall creaked open. A man dressed in finely tailored robes strode in, his steps brisk and purposeful. This was Lord Herdan, the head of the Chamber of Dues and Levies, his demeanor as severe as his angular features.
“Your Majesty,” Herdan began, his tone clipped. “I bring news from the western provinces.”
King Erend straightened slightly, more out of habit than interest. “What is it, Herdan? Have the peasants misplaced their tools again?”
“Far worse, my liege,” Herdan replied, his voice laced with disdain. “Two villages—fishing and farming settlements—have failed to deliver their monthly tribute. Not a single coin, not a bushel of grain.”
The king’s hand paused on his sword hilt. His gaze sharpened, the air of indifference fading as his lips pressed into a thin line. “Failed?” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
Herdan took a measured step closer. “Indeed. I suspect it is no mere oversight. These… rural folk grow bold. Perhaps they believe the crown too preoccupied with matters of court to enforce its will.”
The king’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. “Insolent wretches,” he hissed. “Do they not understand the balance of this kingdom? They toil, they pay, and they survive. That is the order of things.”
Herdan nodded solemnly. “Precisely, Your Majesty. That is why swift action must be taken. A lesson must be taught, not only to these defiant villages but to all who might entertain similar thoughts.”
King Erend rose from his throne, the shift in his demeanor palpable. He turned to the steward. “Summon the seventh brigade of knights. I want them at the ready by dawn.”
The steward bowed low and departed swiftly.
Herdan seized the opportunity to continue. “Might I suggest an addition to the order, Your Majesty? My son, Orlan, has been studying military strategy and is eager to serve the crown. This would be an excellent opportunity for him to gain practical experience.”
The king regarded Herdan for a moment before nodding. “Very well. Let him ride with the seventh brigade. But understand this, Herdan: if your son fails to deliver a decisive outcome, the crown’s judgment will be swift and unforgiving.”
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Herdan inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
----------------------------------------
The courtyard of the royal barracks was alive with the sound of clinking armor and the shouts of commands. Knights of the seventh brigade stood in disciplined formations, their polished armor reflecting the morning sun. Each knight bore a crimson cloak adorned with the sigil of Lorridian—a golden eagle with wings spread wide. Though their postures were disciplined, there was an undercurrent of tension in the air.
Among them, Orlan Herdan, dressed in a custom-fitted set of armor that gleamed as if freshly forged, stood out like a sore thumb. His movements were calculated, his stance overly rigid as if to impress.
Orlan surveyed the knights with an air of superiority, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “I trust you’ve all been briefed on the importance of this mission,” he announced, his voice carrying an edge of arrogance. “We are to remind these backwater peasants of their place in the grand design of the kingdom.”
The knights exchanged glances, their expressions betraying a mixture of irritation and disbelief. Sir Drennor, a grizzled veteran who had served the crown for over two decades, stepped forward. His tone was measured but firm. “With respect, sir, our mission is to ensure the tribute is collected and to maintain order.”
Orlan waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, of course. And if that requires a show of force, so be it.”
Drennor’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing further. The knights returned to their preparations, though their movements carried an undercurrent of unease. Whispers passed between them, voicing their concerns over being led by an inexperienced noble with more bravado than sense.
----------------------------------------
The village bustled with nervous energy as preparations for an uncertain future continued. Within the hastily built palisade, every able-bodied person worked tirelessly. Women and older children crafted arrows, their hands deftly cutting feathers and tying them to shafts. Men reinforced the wooden stakes lining the palisade’s perimeter, their muscles straining as they drove logs deeper into the ground. A group of villagers sat in a circle grinding herbs and mixing ingredients to create basic healing tinctures, their faces tense but focused.
In the middle of the training yard, Eric led a small group in combat drills. His voice rang out across the clearing as he demonstrated a basic defensive stance. “Hold your ground! Feet steady, arms firm. If you lose balance, you lose the fight.”
Felix stood among the trainees, sweat dripping from his brow as he mimicked Eric’s movements. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, his determination unwavering.
“You’re improving,” Eric said, his tone encouraging. “But remember—strength means nothing without control.”
Felix nodded, gritting his teeth as he reset his stance. Around him, other villagers practiced with makeshift wooden swords, their strikes clumsy but earnest.
Meanwhile, in the town hall, Berry prepared for his upcoming lecture. His face was uncharacteristically serious as he arranged jars of glowing crystals and crudely drawn diagrams on the long wooden table. He muttered to himself, occasionally scribbling notes in a journal.
The room felt charged with anticipation. Villagers peeked in through the doorway, curiosity mingling with trepidation. A child whispered, “What’s he doing?” only to be hushed by their mother.
----------------------------------------
At first light, the seventh brigade set out from the capital. The banners of Lorridian snapped in the wind as the knights rode in precise formation. Orlan led at the front, his posture confident, though his inexperience was glaringly apparent to those who followed.
Behind him, Sir Drennor exchanged a glance with his fellow knights. The grizzled veteran’s expression was grim, his voice low as he muttered to his comrade, “Let’s hope his ambition doesn’t cost us more than it’s worth.”
The horizon stretched before them, a journey of days to the defiant villages. Unbeknownst to Orlan, this mission would test not only the loyalty of the brigade but the limits of his own arrogance.